


Retirement Party

by Querego_sour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bestiality, Gore, Imaginary character death?, Incest, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, mention of past underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Querego_sour/pseuds/Querego_sour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a horrible little short vomited out by my brain while reading Feral_Fic_Writer's 'Recalibrated,' which is very well written & wonderful if you have a taste for very dark stuff balanced with a hefty shot of comfort. Do go and read that first :)</p>
<p>John has a little daydream about what he's going to do when he gets his bitch back. Do NOT read if you have an even slightly sensitive disposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retirement Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Feral_Fic_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feral_Fic_Writer/gifts).



John found himself in no particular rush to hit the road and head to South Dakota. He had been meaning to throw a few things in the car and make a move, but after Sam’s little temper tantrum, he figured the kid could sit and stew for a while before they got on with reacquiring their wayward bitch. 

That being said, he hadn’t been lying when he told Singer they wanted to do some research. He just wouldn’t be looking in the same books as his boy. He had something else in mind entirely, and he didn’t intend to let Sam in on it until he was good and ready - especially with the way Sam had been bleating on and on about their missing pup. He’d gone soft in the head over it, and John had had enough.

Dean had gone too far to just let her have the same place in their lives as before; whether she came crawling or kicking and screaming didn’t matter any more. The sheer gall of it was too much. Trying to get out of the fate her master had decided for her. She was going to learn there was no way out, ever. 

The first step would be to run the bitch to ground. Years of experience tracking and hunting monsters would make this almost laughably easy. Dean had been smart enough back when she’d been whole and a hunter, but John was confident he could out-think the fuck-ruined, mindless bitch he’d turned her into.

It’d be that much simpler if it turned out she really had scurried straight to ‘Uncle Bobby.’ John smirked privately. The old bastard had never had a clue about John’s quality time with his eldest. Sometimes he thought he could have bent the little slut over and fucked her right under Bobby’s whiskered nose, and he still wouldn’t have known what was going on. It wasn’t so much that he was stupid or too trusting, the old fart just had no imagination.

John had plenty, and he was going to make sure to use it when he brought Dean to heel this one last time. Sam could go to hell if he thought he had any say in it. He’d been turning into a petulant, infantile little prick lately, as if he’d ever have had a sniff of Dean without John’s say so. _He_ made the decision to bitch Dean in the first place and _he_ had decided how he wanted it to end. 

He could picture it now, and once he got started, it was hard to stop his mind lingering on the images it conjured up, the obscene finale he intended to make a reality. He didn’t give a crap if Sam happened by now and saw the hard-on straining against the fabric of his jeans. His teenaged son would never guess what was playing out in his dad’s mind.

It would have to happen in the privacy of the bunker. He had one of the cells picked out already.  
He pictured Dean there, panicked, helpless, wildly rolling eyes the only part of her tightly bound body she could move, strapped into the heaviest, sturdiest breeding bench John would be able to get a hold of – he hadn’t acquired it yet but had something in mind - buckles biting into flesh. He hadn’t decided if he wanted a bit and muzzle, or a ring gag to force Dean’s mouth wide. She’d be whining, gleaming with sweat and burning up, dosed to the eyeballs with that spelled bitch juice Sam had brewed to use behind his back before the last dogfights.  
Maybe he’d give Dean a goodbye fuck, and maybe, if he was feeling very generous and the boy behaved himself, he’d let Sam give his pet a final seeing-to before the festivities got started. After all, there might not be anything left for Sam to get his dick into afterwards. 

The room - one of the cells with the concrete floor - had plenty of space to make sure the spellwork was perfect. All he needed was a little unwitting help from Singer.  
It was pretty plausible to have run across a hunt that involved dealing with hellhounds. 

The thought sent a quick throb of blood to his dick, and he could feel himself start to leak already. He thought about calling Addy back to take care of it, but in the end he didn’t want to break from his reverie. He stretched out in his chair comfortably and slid his hand into his pants, beginning to stroke his hot, rigid erection. 

Maybe he’d only be able to contain one hellhound. Maybe he’d be able to set a _whole pack_ on the little turncoat. He’d seen what a pack could do to a living body between them and the soul they’d been sent for. He deeply wanted to see what monsters like that could do when they were horny, driven wild by pheromones and Dean’s helpless, dribbling bitch-cunt. His mind slid back briefly to Sam’s stupid comment, the speck around which this idea had been forming - _I bet one of them could even give a hellhound a run for its money_. Moron. Nobody who’d been near a hellhound or seen one of their kills would ever say something that stupid.  
It would be a fucking spectacular final show, the perfect way to retire the worn out, used-up dogwhore, even if the hounds didn’t show up on camera. Fuck Tan Richards for thinking he would ever get his hands on what belonged to John Winchester.  
He smiled, still touching himself, at the thought of the prick’s face when he sent him his own personal copy of the footage of Dean being fucked to death by demon dogs. 

John licked his hand wetly a few times, taking his time to deal with this rather than getting blue balls, which he was not accustomed to tolerating. He let himself dwell on what was in store for his wilful bitch, lingering on the details that made his dick twitch. The size of the hounds – reports could be unreliable but he’d seen bite marks that suggested something huge, bigger than Great Danes and Pit Bulls put together.  
There’d be no way to muzzle the monsters, to draw the final bitching out longer, but with the right wards in place John could watch – and film – from relative safety. Workable safety. Filming would be interesting – hellhound cocks would presumably be as invisible as the rest of their bodies. Neither John nor any viewers who paid for the privilege would see them in the flesh – just Dean’s filthy, pathetic cunt gape and drool and bleed as it was speared and gored.  
John was pretty sure, if the hounds were anything like mortal dogs, that they would have proportional equipment; big enough, thick enough and long enough that the first one to thrust in might rupture Dean’s insides pretty good, even before it popped its monster knot. The bitch was going to be ripped to pieces by the breeding as much as their snapping, crushing jaws.  
He imagined Dean’s face, eyes bugged out, sweat glistening and rolling down her skin, mixed with tears and painted with terror, helpless shrieks muffled down to pitiful puppy yelps and squeals through the bit and muzzle – yes, definitely the muzzle – John paused and squeezed the base of his own dick hard, teetered on the edge for a couple of seconds. Not yet; he wanted to enjoy this little reflection to the full.

He pictured the first dismount, unseen claws leaving bone-deep tears down Dean’s wasted sides, the gush of foul, sulphur-reeking spunk and coppery blood running down Dean’s legs and over the floor. He hoped the spunk would be visible, knew hellhounds certainly left enough foamy, stringy slaver behind when they killed.

He wondered how much jizz they could spurt into the bitch. He groaned, pumping his fist faster, lost in thoughts of pints, litres, gallons of hot slime forced into Dean’s guts. Maybe so much she’d be full all the way to the other end and have the stuff leaking from her mouth… John knew it was pretty much physically impossible, but wallowed in the vivid scene playing out in his head – the bitch pumped so full she was choking on it, puking it, aspirating and drowning in come and her own blood.  
He pictured himself cutting Dean’s throat and shoving his rigid erection into the red, spewing hole, stripping his dick furiously, flicking through a series of images greedily, wanting to get off on all of them at once. The crack of her neck breaking between huge jaws, her scrawny back clawed over and over until the pale knobs of her spine were exposed, her teeth breaking and pattering to the floor and her jaw dislocating as an invisible, but gore-streaked knot stretched her mouth beyond its limits, straining and then and tearing her face open while blood soaked into the hellhound’s thrusting crotch.  
He pictured her bloating out, ballooning helplessly with monster spunk while she wriggled and squealed like the feeble little bitch she was, doomed and totally unable to do a thing to save herself. He imagined her freckled skin getting tighter, shiny, stretched thinner and thinner as the beasts fucked into her and tore her ass up beyond any hope of repair.  
Panting, he wondered if the hounds worked up to enough of a fucking frenzy she would feel her organs crushed and guts burst like a bunch of overfilled water balloons before she died. If Addy was listening, he’d have heard the wet, vulgar, frantic noise of Daddy’s hand on his dick. He imagined those bulging green eyes, brilliant with terror and pain in the instant before her body finally gave up and split open in a gush of steaming guts and viscous come, loops of glossy, wrecked intestine spilling sloppily over the floor, slithering out of Dean’s prolapsed, shotgun-wound of a hole, as if she’d had a fistful of cherry-bombs rammed up her ass and set off.  
That was how the bitch was going to go out; a hapless lump of warm meat, with no purpose except to be destroyed for its owner’s pleasure.  
As his come spattered over the table, John pictured himself in that room, coming, spurting over the quivering, dying dog, droplets of semen landing in her dimming, unblinking eyes. 

It seemed like just a few moments later that his satisfaction was fading again, faster than his spend was drying on the furniture. He wanted to hang on to the tingle of anticipation, so he wondered to himself if they’d find out whether Dean had really been bred when the fatal bitching happened for real. She might even miscarry while she was being fucked. Maybe it wouldn’t be as spectacular as his little daydream, but seeing blind, skinless little pink forms being battered out of Deans’ body by those hellhound dicks would be fantastic. If it happened, he’d definitely make sure Sam watched, so he could see what happened when he tried to put his own plans ahead of his father’s.

Tucking his now slightly sore cock into his pants, John stretched languidly, and got up to get changed. He had a long drive in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's vile, it's supposed to be vile. I'm not apologising.


End file.
